


An Ink-credible Day

by morrigone



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:00:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5405657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrigone/pseuds/morrigone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair wants a tattoo. What he gets is so much better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"So about that tattoo..."

Alistair blushed. This was not how he imagined this conversation going. If only he could just calm the fluttering of his heart. His fingers patted the thick metal of his breastplate nervously.

He had been… looking at Zevran a lot recently. Not intentionally, of course! It just happened to be that he usually brought up the rear of the party. As they walked, the only thing the party could hear was the crunch of leaves underfoot, their breathing, and the clinking of Zevran's dagger against his metal belt. Lady Cousland usually led, determined and stoic. Then it was Morrigan who followed. He could feel her eyes roll just from looking at her back.

And then the rogue. His hips swaggered with the confidence of Nevarran royalty. His narrow waist led to the broadest back, against which his sword thumped.

It was here that Alistair's eyes would catch, watching the rise and fall of his breath and the tension of his neck when darkspawn were near. Was it attraction, or...?

This was stupid. It was just that he had nowhere else to look among the monotonous leaves. The fact that he watched other men didn't mean anything. At all.

"Ah, so you are still interested. Excellent."

Zevran turned with that cocky, million-sovereign smile and Alistair couldn't help the small quirk that twitched the corners of his mouth.

His face felt stiff. How long had been walking with that scowl? he wondered. He wasn't a particularly angry type of person. He just thought a lot. When he thought, his mouth would turn down pensively. His brow would furrow. His hands would clench into fists. Of course, at this Morrigan would make all sorts of jokes.

"'Tis difficult when your bowels complain, is it not?" she would snicker.

But Zevran did not mock him. He raised his eyebrows.

"For you, I imagine a beautiful woman, on the bicep of your sword arm, yes? When you draw your sword, her naked hips will sway sensuously. It will be most intimidating to your enemies, will it not?"

Alistair's cheeks turned from rose to darkspawn-blood-red. He stammered.

"I don't...think so. Uh..."

"Why not?" Zevran smirked (Maker, was his face stuck in a perpetual smirk?) "You like beautiful women, do you not?"

Did he? If only Alistair had had a more formal introduction to love, maybe then he would know the difference between attraction and friendship. All he knew was that it was different with men and women. When he watched Lady Cousland, he felt a comfortable kind of love and respect. He could smile comfortably, joke comfortably. He could certainly recognize her as an attractive woman.

But with Zevran, he felt chaotic. There was a warmth that spread through his body when he watched the rogue doing anything, really. And when Zevran flashed his impossibly perfect smile at Alistair, his heart would beat faster and faster, like bees were trapped inside his chest and they wanted to escape.

But that, of course, was just the thrill of fighting darkspawn. Of course!

"I love women! Can't get enough of them. I like their... noses. And their... elbows?"

Zevran laughed boisterously. For such a small man, the elf's chuckle certainly resonated.

"Then you are worried about the accuracy of the illustration. I can assure you, I am most talented with my hands. And I certainly have sufficient experience with the female form."

Okay, now he was just bragging. Alistair thought about the flogging he would receive back in the chantry for the thoughts he was having now.

"But it doesn't make sense! It'll be hidden by my armor."

Zevran chuckled darkly.

"I am sure there will be other opportunities to... expose it."

Okay, now he was definitely flirting. And Alistair was surprised at how he was letting it happen. (And how much he was enjoying it?)

He tried to hold the elf's confident, teasing gaze.

"How about something simple. One of those elven designs?"

"Ah, but you must tell me which one. Are you partial to my chest?"

"What?" Alistair sputtered.

They were back at camp now. Zevran turned to him and unbuttoned part of his Antivan leather breastpiece. Across his broad chest was a branching, faded elven design. It was unlike any human tattoo that Alistair had seen. It seemed to hug every dip and curve on the rogue's chest perfectly, almost as if he had been born with it. It danced with the shadows that were descending over the camp, bending and twisting tantalizingly.

Wait, how long had Alistair been staring? He hoped Zevran didn't think that he was looking at... something else. Alistair flattened his features in feigned contemplation.

"Too, uh... big." he blushed, "Besides, I could never imagine that one on anybody but you."

"Is that so?"

Zevran inched forward. For a minute, Alistair thought he was going to remove  _ his _ armor. But instead, Zevran took his hand. Slowly, he slid off Alistair's chainmail glove. The gesture felt surprisingly intimate as smooth, silky metal brushed his palm. Then it was Zevran's deft, slender fingers turning it upside down, pressing his callous thumb into the divot of Alistair's heartline. Alistair had been taught a bit of useless palm reading as part of his chantry education.

He wondered if Zevran knew which line he had just touched.

"A palm tattoo would be beautiful, no?

Did he mean that it would objectively be beautiful, or that Alistair would be beautiful with it?

"Wh--I mean, yeah, alright."

Well, that was it. He really was agreeing to this. Back out now and he risked ridicule and humiliation.

Zevran smiled and drew something from his back pocket. It was a small, conical rock. The moonlight gave it a cool ruby glow, as if it shone from within. The rogue grew closer and closer, until Alistair could feel his warm breath on the exposed skin. Alistair drew his hand back.

"What are you doing?"

The corners of Zevran's mouth drew up slowly. His eyebrows relaxed. His bronze eyes fixed themselves lazily on Alistair's features, tracing them slowly like the touch of a feather.

"Relax. I am marking the area."

He brought his thumb to his lips, then used it to wet the end of the pigmented stone.

"Oh, lovely. Now I'm going catch all those weird Antivan diseases you probably carry. Thanks."

Zevran didn't even look up.

"It is impossible to catch a disease unless it penetrates the barrier of the skin. I would have thought your superior Ferelden education would have taught you that."

Alistair's chest felt hot. The design the rogue drew was a web of elfroot, flowering exquisitely as it did in the dead of winter. Alistair remembered the bush that grew outside the chantry. The nuns would reprimand him for the time he spent looking at that flower. The stained glass window acted as a prism above the bush, casting a multicolored glow. It was a depiction of holy Andraste with her hands extended in a gesture of patience and gratitude: the two most valued chantry attributes. Alistair's insatiable nature rejected both of these qualities. He had too much appreciation for the natural world and not enough for the beyond. He had too much dissatisfaction with the current state of Ferelden and not enough faith in The Maker's light.

One flower for half the year. Alistair awaited it like his fellow trainees awaited the evening prayer.

"Zev..."

He wasn't sure what he was about to say, but it probably would have been regrettable. Zevran interrupted him in a reserved whisper.

"Zev to my friends, remember?"

"We're not friends? Making someone a tattoo... That's pretty friendly..."

Zevran was quiet. The red stone pressed a little deeper into Alistair's skin. Until now it had been an invisible pressure. As if acting of its own accord, another crimson leaf sprouted from his lifeline.

"If we're not--"

"Templar, we are not friends."

This was murmured almost inaudibly. Alistair would not have heard it, had their heads not been so close together.

"Are we not, Crow?"

Zevran chuckled. It was a different sort of laugh. Tangled within it were threads of unspoken words.

Alistair knew perfectly well that the elf's loyalty lay with the wardens. Lady Cousland had proven herself to be a cunning and skilled leader. Not to mention a talented mage. Thus, what preexisting oaths Alistair had made to the templar order were long severed. He was as free as he had ever been. And he assumed the same of Zevran.

Zevran drew a last definitive stroke. The intricacy of the design fascinated Alistair. This was no caricature. From the tiny supporting sepals, to the small apical buds that practically vibrated with the promise of sweet, colorful life, every small detail was where and what it should be.

However once Zevran was done, he did not pull away. Instead, he tilted his head up to meet Alistair's gaze. Alistair did not look away either. There was something magnetic about the elf's gaze. His eyes were flecked with gold. Everything except his clothing had an echo of royalty. His tattoos had an incandescent quality in the darkness that make him look even more otherworldly than usual. Comparatively, Alistair felt so plain and uncharismatic. How can a person learn the kind of sparkle that was forever present in the rogue's eyes?

Zevran's slender, lithe fingers seemed to hover forever by Alistair's face before they settled on his cheek. Was this another Dalish tradition? What about when they retracted to lightly ghost over Alistair's cheekbone?

"We are not friends." Zevran breathed.

It was difficult to say who was drawing closer to whom. All Alistair knew was that his head was being gently tilted to the right, and a soft pressure was being placed on his lips.

Zevran must have known, he thought unforgivably, that this was his first kiss.

The Maker would surely never forget the terrible thoughts he was having now. He tried anything to qualm them, but Zevran's touch was so gentle and Alistair's desire was overwhelming and…

Alistair pulled away to gasp (did kisses usually go this long without breathing? His famed Grey Warden endurance really was not up to this particular challenge) before bringing their lips together once more. This time it was not as gentle. His hands, which had been resting awkwardly by his sides, seemed to reach up of their own accord. He dragged the pad of his thumb across Zevran's perfect cheekbone. Zevran smiled into the kiss, taking hold of Alistair's hands and knitting their fingers together gently.

Then Zevran pulled away abruptly, dragging his fingers across his cheek. Smeared all over his face and hand was an inky red substance.

Alistair stammered, “Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to ruin your design! Zevran I--”

In response, Zevran slid his crimson stained fingers behind Alistair’s neck and pulled him in close again.

And it was better than any tattoo Alistair could have dreamed of.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair attempts to tell Zevran how he feels.

"May I come in?"

The echo of Zevran's unmistakable, sultry accent rang out in the dark.

"What? Why?"

Alistair was safe in his tent for now. As long as Zevran was out there and he was in here, everything was okay. It was the moment that a pointy-nailed, smooth finger made its way around the flap that he felt his heartbeat begin to ring out through his body.

"Because I would like to. If I may."

Zevran lifted up the flap: he crouched in front of the tent, kneeling in that half-provocative, half-chivalrous way that he had. The tattoos that snaked across his angular cheekbones glowed in the moonlight. Ugh, Alistair groaned internally. The tattoo. The way he had made a complete ass of himself about that beautiful tattoo. Zevran probably thought that he had kissed him just to escape the pain of the tattoo. Or maybe--

"Are you going to invite me in?"

Alistair hated the effect that the assassin had on him. He could feel the smile begin to creep into his features, seemingly of their own accord.

"You're pretty concerned with manners, for a..."

Alistair struggled for the least offensive word possible.

"Oh please, do tell me," Zevran said lazily, tracing an infinity in the dirt he kneeled on. "An Antivan? An elf? A crow?"

Yeah, he didn't really know where he was going with that one. And why did his tongue feel like it was tied in a triple knot? He attempted to untie it so he could answer.

"Just come into the tent."

Zevran crawled in grinning, as if his goal all along was to unnerve Alistair. He was succeeding. The bastard.

"The way you have decorated is most handsome, no? It suits you."

Alistair looked around his barren tent. It had been the cheapest one in the Denerim marketplace, purchased by Lady Cousland. What a cheapskate that woman was. Alistair loved her, but she was simply money-obsessed. Asking Bodhain for a reward, for instance, after saving him and his son from the darkspawn! Frankly, it was a disgrace to the warden reputation.

"Are you mocking me, Zevran?"

The rogue looked up from the chainmail glove that he was inspecting meticulously.

"Always, my dear."

He put down the glove, heading next for the rose he noticed in the corner. That man had the attention of a genlock.

"Stop touching my things."

Surprisingly, the rogue listened. He placed the flower down, patting it gently.

"And who is this for, may I ask?"

It was the only rose Alistair had seen in all of his travels. The small flower gave off a triumphant air. Of course, Alistair wasn't going to tell him the real reason he had plucked it. Its beauty, its success against all odds, and the deadly thorns could only remind him of one person.

"It's... uh... a gift for Lady Cousland!" Alistair said quickly.

"Really." Zevran replied, eyelids fluttering in interest.

"Of course! I'm... courting her."

Nothing about Zevran's smooth features revealed any sign of emotion. If anything, he seemed amused. He reached over and plucked a velvety petal from the flower. He then gently closed his fingers around it, squeezing it, rolling it between his hands, and discarding it on the floor of Alistair's tent.

"Do you mind?" Alistair said, craning his head to meet the elf's stoic gaze, which was determinedly fixed on the ground in front of him. The petal lay in a small crimson heap, dejectedly still now.

"I do, in fact." Zevran's brows furrowed. "Ah, it only makes sense, my little templar. The beautiful lady receives the whole flower and I? I am blessed with a single petal."

Alistair could not believe it. He had never, in his months of knowing the rogue, thought him capable of jealousy. It just seemed incompatible with his personality. Zevran was easily the most handsome one in the party. He was unspeakably clever, and as of recently, remarkably sensitive and kind. Anybody would be lucky to have him. And yet? That one kiss had started something Alistair could not even begin to comprehend. But this was ridiculous. Alistair wasn't even attracted to men! He had to let Zevran know this. And how?

How he always did. Distracting himself from the situation until it went away entirely.

"Hey, don't call me little. I'm at least a head taller than you!"

Zevran shook his head. He nudged the petal with his boot.

"We cannot ignore our feelings, Alistair. This is what leads to anger. Resentment."

This was the moment Alistair was waiting for. The opportunity to let Zevran know the truth.

Just say it, he thought, just tell him how you feel. I don't like you in that way, I am not attracted to you, I…

"Can we kiss again?"

Woah there, Alistair. That was definitely not what he wanted to say. As for what he wanted to do…

Zevran smiled. This time it seemed genuine. Unlike his usual smirk, this one spread all the way to his eyes. His incredibly long lashes lifted. His nose crinkled. The edges of his full lips drew slowly toward the ceiling of Alistair's tent, which was beginning to feel even smaller than usual.

"Can we? I am unsure. Perhaps we should try."

Zevran inched closer to him. There wasn't much distance to close, considering the meager size of the tent, however it felt like eons before he arrived in front of Alistair, kneeling and shifting his weight slowly from leg to leg.

He dropped his voice to a gentle whisper.

"You know, I do not mind if you are also courting the lady."

Alistair was so surprised that he lifted his hand up and shoved Zevran squarely on the chest. It was light enough that the pressure bounced harmlessly off the rogue's breastplate. As if he had expected this, Zevran's hands came forward, sliding up his arms and catching him on the shoulders.

"I--"

This time there was no hesitation. Their lips fit together perfectly, like a lock and a key, like a sword in a hilt, like…

Whatever the fuck they were like. Whatever they were, they were lips, and they were Zevran's and Alistair's and that was that.

They pulled away momentarily, and Zevran took the opportunity to cup Alistair's cheek. He leaned in again, gently kissing where Alistair's jaw met his neck and moving slowly. His cheek. The side of his mouth. The warmth was inescapable. Alistair's tent, normally arm-pricklingly cold, was covered with a radiating mist of desire. Which was exactly why they had to stop, Alistair thought.

"Zevran." Alistair murmured into his companion's mouth.

"Yes."

"Can we not... do anything?"

Zevran laughed, grabbing hold of Alistair's wrist and bringing it to the small of his back.

"We are free. We can do whatever we wish to."

"You know what I mean."

Nothing could phase that man. Zevran continued to look mildly amused. Alistair's flush had spread throughout his whole body. He was sure that even from the dim light of his candle, Zevran could see that. Or at least he could feel it.

"Alistair. You told the lady once that you enjoyed following, did you not?"

"Actually I think that was Morrigan I was talking to."

"Are you implying that our lovely witch is not a lady?"

Alistair groaned and pulled away slightly.

"Could you refrain from reminding me how lovely women are while we're kissing?"

Zevran laughed.

"Surely this does not bother you. They are women. They are a different species entirely."

Alistair shifted away even more, but Zevran, who was watching him this time, placed a strong hand behind his neck, brushing his fingers slightly over that small tuft of hair that never seemed to stay down. Alistair inadvertently shivered at the sensation, attempting to take control once more.

"And we are men. And we really shouldn't--"

That was the third kiss. Which led to the fourth. Which somehow led to the fifth. And nothing happened that night but kissing, but somehow with Zevran, it felt like more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Zevran stay up a little too late.

It was midnight. Probably. The moon was high and the only sounds that could be heard were the cicadas and Sten's snoring. That man was like a bear. Huge, stoic, easily provoked, and silent save at night, when he sounded like a rumbling volcano. Alistair and Zevran were lying under a tree on the edge of camp. To any passing companion or, uh, darkspawn they seemed to be asleep. It was only to each other that they were awake, for every time Alistair was drifting off he would feel his hand gently squeezed, or Zevran's warm breath on his neck.

"Do you have to be so damn distracting?" Alistair whispered, unsure of whether or not he was joking, "I'm trying to sleep."

Zevran chuckled, "If you are so tired, I would suggest perhaps going back your tent?"

In response, Alistair buried his head in Zevran's neck. He was so warm. Like a handsome Antivan fireplace. Alistair wondered if he was more attracted to Zevran as a person or as a heat source. It certainly was chilly in the mountains. They were on their way to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes. If Alistair had known how frosty the Frostback Mountains were, maybe he wouldn't have… Oh, that's why they were called that.

Zevran's breath ghosted against his cheek.

"Tell me what you are thinking about."

Alistair laughed quietly.

"You don't want to know."

Zevran drew himself up, angling his body to face Alistair. There was a kind of innocence to him when he wasn't wearing his leather armor. Somehow the cold did not seem to affect him. He wore a light undershirt and baggy cloth pants, which hung low on his hips, as if he had shrunk since buying them. Alistair did not want to admit how attractive he found him in them.

"My dear warden," Zevran said, "I want to know every thought that passes through your mind."

They had kissed twice now. Proper kisses. Breathless kisses. Alistair was not even sure what they meant at this point. Before this, he had been so sure of who and what he was attracted to. Women were fascinating. It was the little things that got to him. The shine of Morrigan's hair before she tied it up. Lady Cousland's slender ankles. Even the bard's tinkling laugh provoked something beyond basic appreciation. Surely this was attraction.

And yet Zevran was the one he had kissed. The one who listened to him. Teased him. Sent his head reeling with every small touch. It wasn't just one thing. It was the way he did absolutely everything. Alistair was unsure of anything except that he loved being close to the rogue and hearing him talk in that adorable accent. He loved having a secret. As a young boy in the chantry, there were no secrets. Everything, the nuns said, was relevant to his Templar training. So they could sense any and all secrets.

Zevran lightly brushed Alistair's hair next to his ear, using the pads of his fingers to trace the outline.

He kissed Alistair's lobe, breathing almost inaudibly over the howling of the wind blowing through the camp.

"You are part elf, mm?"

Alistair sat up abruptly, nearly knocking his head on a low hanging branch.

"Wh--how do you--I'll kill Lady Cousland for telling you that!"

"Shh," Zevran smiled, shifting close once more, "It was your ear shape. I knew from the moment I met you."

_ A dirty mirror and a rush of anxiety from his stomach to his chest. The nuns always have solutions to aggression. Beating usually. Either that, or they would hand you a sword and tell you to go to town with your Templar skills (maybe not in those exact words.) Insecurity is a little more difficult, especially when you bottle it up like Alistair does. He leans in, angling his head, all the while filled with an expectation of a banging on the door. Soon. _

_ The slightest point can be seen in his ear. This is why he is not nobility. It would be so easy. If only he had a sharp blade. If only he were a mage. Ever so slightly, he could round the top, cutting off bit by bit. He could be pure again. When you're not human and not elf, do you even have an identity? _

_ But like the stains on the bronze-rimmed mirror, his imperfections are irreversible. The extra fat around his ribs, his freckles, his awkwardness... Nothing can compare to the shame he feels inside. Bastard son of a servant. How could anybody love that? _

"I'm nothing like you," he snapped.

Zevran's brow furrowed slightly.

"I seem to have touched a nerve. Perhaps we can speak in the morning, yes?"

Alistair sighed. He couldn't believe Zevran was being the mature one in this situation. Insecurity was once again, he knew, spinning webs of lies into his ear. He wished he could just switch it off.

"No... I'm sorry."

Zevran smiled, reaching for Alistair's chest. His hands began to unbutton the thick shirt that Alistair slept in. Moving tantalizingly slowly, he worked. One button. Two buttons. His deft fingers brushed across Alistair's chest, and Alistair felt himself shiver at the breeze that pervasively tickled the exposed skin.

"Zevran..." he sighed.

The rogue's hands stopped at the third button. Alistair looked down to see why. Zevran had grabbed hold of the chain fastened around his neck. At the end of it was a small vial of murky brown liquid. Darkspawn blood. Looking at it resulted in a rush of memories, along with a pang of fresh heartbreak grabbing hold of his insides.  _ Duncan _ .

"Look," the rogue smiled, eyes gently glowing in the waning light of their campfire's embers.

"I don't want--"

"My friend. Look and see the man you have become."

Alistair forced himself to look at the blood of his promise. The commitment he had made. Was this who he was?

Zevran placed the locket lightly back onto his chest. He leaned in, gently brushing Alistair's right cheek with his lips.

"A brave man."

The left.

"An honorable man."

Alistair squirmed. Even with his chest exposed, he was burning up.

His lips.

"The future is your own. This is what I have learned. I have..."

Zevran leaned away slightly, his eyes flicking down. He did not seem to be looking at his companion now. He was somewhere far away. Where? An Antivan brothel? An indistinguishable forest in Ferelden? A moving coach with an extravagantly dressed noblewoman, thousand-sovereign dress hiked up over her hips?

"...acted in ways I am not proud of. But you are here. And I enjoy you."

Alistair laughed a bit, silently wondering when the rogue had become so perfect. It seemed like just yesterday that they were bickering pointlessly.

"You enjoy me?"

Zevran smiled coyly.

"Do you understand what I mean?"

He had taken hold of Alistair's hand, and was slowly rubbing the pad of his thumb across the palm gently. It was an odd touch, not like small pecks on the lips or static hand holding. There was a sensuousness to it.

Alistair turned away to distract himself, and that was when he noticed the light of the soft Ferelden sun peeking shyly through the leaves of the great oak they sat under. Sten, who religiously woke up at the crack of dawn to practice his sword fighting, would be awake soon. Alistair looked back down at Zevran. The rogue's lids were heavily drooping. Alistair pulled his hand away.

"I think we should go back to our tents."

"Mm."

"Zevran, you have to get up now."

Zevran smiled lazily, perfect eyebrows raised, spine arching like a cat as he stood.

"Zev to my friends," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran and Alistair have a handsy discussion about religion.

Whispers were their currency in public. In private, it was touching and kissing. But there was something equally scandalous about flirting in front of the other companions.

They had just finished a battle with what felt like a hundred darkspawn. Alistair was sweaty and out of breath. Even though his shoes had stayed securely on his feet throughout the course of the battle, there was a bit of blood that had managed to pool itself into his left boot. It squelched louder than his voice as he leaned over to whisper in Zevran's ear.

"Don't you just love the smell of darkspawn blood in the morning?"

Zevran was polishing his sword. Lady Cousland had recently treated him to a new one, which he had immediately broken in with the intense battle they had just had.

"I must admit, I much prefer the blood of helpless women."

Alistair felt terrible for laughing as hard as he did.

"You don't mean that," he said, half-amused and half-nervous.

Zevran did not respond. Instead, he began to slowly slip his sword into its hilt. Surely he meant to be making such intense eye contact with Alistair as he did so. The sword slowly disappeared as his smile grew. Alistair looked away.

"You're disgusting," he said.

Zevran slowly pulled the sword out, then aggressively rammed it into the hilt again.

"Hey, boys. Boys!"

That was Lady Cousland. She stood with her hands on her perfect hips. She too was covered with blood, but she wore it with pride as it covered her tight leather armor like war paint. She approached Zevran.

"What're you doing with that thing?"

Zevran snickered.

"Must I remind you that I pay good money for your weapons?"

"My lady. I am simply giving it the treatment it deserves."

 

\--

 

One, two, three, four…

"What are you doing?"

"Um, counting the stars?"

"Surely you will not be able to do that alone."

"That's why we're a team."

Alistair shifted his weight until his arm was pressed firmly against that of his companion. Zevran's eyes were iridescent pearls reflecting the moon. He glowed as if his vivacious nature were shining through his pupils.

"I don't know much about you," Alistair said.

It was an embarrassingly obvious statement in itself. If Zevran had wanted to tell Alistair about his life, surely he would have by this point. And yet Alistair could not help but feel guilty at how much of their interactions had consisted of him complaining and being comforted. He was ashamed of needing. He felt like a bird without wings, while his companion had the most brilliant plumage. It was not the appearance that he cared about, so much as the function.

"Mm, I don't know about that..." Zevran said, obviously distracted. They were now facing each other on the cool grass, prickles digging into their sides. The stars were abandoned for the moment. Zevran was propped up on one arm. His eyes kept flicking down to Alistair's lips. Slowly they traced up. Cupid's bow. The tip of his nose. Alistair could feel the other man's eyes rest on his freckles, which were likely all too visible in the bright moonlight. One, two, three. Zevran created constellations with his gaze.

"A question..." (Four, five, six...) "for a question?"

Zevran spoke like an assassin. The difference between assassins and Templars, Alistair mused, was that the assassin cut quick and deep. He had precision. The Templar was comparatively flamboyant. His spells were obvious, bright, and not often accurate. How many innocents had his Templar brothers killed for every single malificarum? He decided not to think about it further.

"Fine. You start."

Zevran closed the distance between them. A warm hand met his freezing one. Their fingers interlaced.

"Why did you leave the Arl’s household?”

Quick and deep.

Alistair sighed.

"I… wasn’t wanted there. After Arlessa began to voice her suspicions at me being Eamon’s bastard, I got sent to the monastery immediately. I would’ve been happy staying as a stableboy. Sometimes I wonder…”

His voice broke there. Whether it was a byproduct of emotion or exhaustion, he couldn't say.

Alistair pulled his hand out of Zevran's death grip. He placed his hands over his aching eyes, pressing deeply until the familiar static and swirls danced behind his lids. If only…

"Did you have a question for me?"

All good questions come from a previous understanding, right? That was what the chantry sisters had taught him. The punishment for a bad question was a condescending glare; deeper than any sword.

"Do you believe in The Maker?"

Zevran's lips twitched in an unmistakable mixture of adoration and amusement. Clearly this was not a topic he took seriously.

"Would that surprise you?" he murmured, in a manner that was the exact opposite of holy. A strand of golden hair had blown over Zevran's face. It now rested on his lips, shifting slightly when he spoke. Alistair reached up, gently brushing it back. He began to pull his hand back, but Zevran caught it once more, roughly pulling the other man towards him.

"Zev!"

"Mm?"

Zevran's hand was making its way down to the small of his back. Lower, lower... There was so little distance between them now. Alistair's Grey Warden pendant was digging into his chest with the same sort of sweet discomfort he got when he kissed Zevran. It was raw heat, so pleasant it burned. Alistair tilted his chin down.

"Zev," he said, a little out of breath, "You haven't answered my question."

At this, his companion laughed. It was a full-bodied chuckle, a little too loud for Alistair's liking. Zevran's hand stayed where it was, right on the waistband of Alistair's sleeping pants (velvet breeches, purchased by Lady Cousland, 20 sovereigns, bargained from 25 sovereigns, rapidly becoming more and more uncomfortable to Alistair.)

"Shall I recite a canticle? Would that satisfy you?"

Satisfy. Maker, could he choose his words more carefully?

Or perhaps less carefully, as the case may be. Either way, Alistair was burning up. Zevran's hand fiddled lightly with the waistband. His index finger slid under, tracing lazy circles on Alistair's hipbone. It was so light and gentle, it was almost calming. At least, it would be were it not for the constant instinct to buck up his hips and feel that hand on other, more... sensitive areas.

"That would be most unholy," Alistair said, trying to sound relaxed and facetious but instead the sentence came out in an affected, shaky breath.

Zevran laughed again.

"I am not a good Andrastian."

His other hand began to slide up Alistair's undershirt. That man really could not keep his hands to himself. Alistair would have protested, but he was too far gone to care.

"But I am an Andrastian all the same."

Alistair momentarily forgot where he was and what he was doing, looking into Zevran's iridescent gaze. They simply blinked at each other for a couple moments. Suddenly, Alistair heard a rustle in the bushes.

"Solas! Come back here!"

It was Lady Cousland's mabari.  A muzzled face peeked out through the foliage. Zevran slowly retracted his hand from under his companion's shirt. Alistair shivered. The dog disappeared once more.

"What is it? Are there some pesky darkspawn hiding behind that tree?"

Alistair thought of Cousland's skills with a sword. He quickly pulled his shirt down and sat up.

"Just me!"

Lady Cousland jumped, but did not draw her weapon.

"For Andraste's sake, Alistair, what are you--ah! Zevran?!"

Zevran was also sitting up now. Alistair thought how odd they must look, dirty and disheveled, crouched behind a bush. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He couldn't even look at Zevran. Instead, he looked down at his lap, which did not reassure him either.

"My lady, we heard you were out of health potions. My companion here, courteous warrior that he is, decided to gather some elfroot to satisfy your needs."

Satisfy. There was that word again. Alistair was not satisfied in the least. In fact, he felt the opposite of it, watching his impossibly smooth companion talk his way out of the messy situation he had put them in.

"At midnight?" Lady Cousland asked, understandably suspicious.

"But of course," Zevran smirked.

He lay his hand on Alistair's thigh.

"Ser Theirin and I had gotten caught up in a lengthy discussion about the existence of the Maker."

Lady Cousland, a passionate atheist, groaned.

"Ugh, count me out. Come on, Solas."

The dog looked equally fed up. He turned around, following on her heels.

The wind was picking up in the leaves. They rustled like idle gossip in a crowd. Alistair let out a sharp exhale. It sounded a bit like, "Maker..."

Zevran just smiled and squeezed his thigh.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Zevran get ready to face the day.

The sun rose over Ferelden, as it always did. The animals woke, stirring quietly and then, as though filled with taut springs, they jumped up suddenly, filling the air with curious noises. These noises then proceeded to grow ever louder, as if the animals were distressed at the sound of their own voices.

One such animal was Cousland's mabari. The hound ran a lap around the camp, barking furiously. Sten, who had been awake for hours, sighed at the noise, putting down his sword and unemotionally setting the kettle on the fire for a cup of his vile Qunari grain tea.

Alistair heard these noises—the bark of the dog, the clank of the sword, and the sigh of the qunari.

He rolled over, blinking blearily before focusing on two lively, feline eyes looking at him.

"Maker, Zev..."

Zevran smiled, holding up two opaque mugs.

"I brought drinks."

Alistair buried his face in his pillow, which was composed of an old straw sack and thus provided very little comfort.

"A little early for ale, don't you think?" he mumbled.

Zevran sat down unnecessarily close to his companion, unwrapping a sandwich with ease.

"It's tea, though something a little more fun could be arranged," he smiled, nudging Alistair with his elbow. Alistair sighed, forcing himself to sit up. He picked up the mug and cautiously sipped the tea, which tasted like sticks and grass.

"This is gross."

Zevran didn't look up from his food.

"Are Templars always so complaintive?"

Alistair blushed as his companion gave a hearty chuckle, which echoed hollowly off the walls of his thin tent.

Zevran leaned forward, opening the flap of the tent. The milky sunrise was making an appearance over the camp. The moon seemed to wink at them as it faded gently into the mist of the Dalish forest.

"Shall we take a walk?"

"We walk for hours every day," Alistair yawned. It was still much too early for his liking, easily an hour until they would be done packing and heading out.

"I know," Zevran smiled, eyes glowing, "But I never get you to myself."

He held his hand out to his companion. Alistair blinked, taking it. Zevran's touch was gentle and warm, his gaze soft. They sat like that for a moment. Then Zevran squeezed and let go, shifting and slipping out into the glow of the campfire. He clearly had no doubts as to whether Alistair would follow. He was right.

 

\---

"This one?"

Zevran brought his face to the plant. It was coiled around itself in a repetitive, braided design. Brick-colored thorns covered the flowers, whose complex array of crimson gave one the impression that they were exploding in their unique extravagance.

"Poisonous," Zevran said.

He took one last whiff before turning back to his nervous companion.

"You really shouldn't get so close to it then."

Zevran laughed, bending over to pick a cluster of deathroot. Alistair attempted not to stare at his companion's perfect figure, which was once more without armor. The slope of Zevran's back shifted angles slightly, and Alistair watched his muscles tense and release as he managed to pull a particularly deeply rooted stem.

"My dear, if I am to die from a stray bit of pollen from a toxic plant... so be it."

"Zev, that's an awful thing to say!"

Zevran coyly offered Alistair the deathroot bouquet, which he had somehow managed to tie together using a blood lotus stem, wrapped around it in a perfect, looping bow.

They had reached a large field of the type which Alistair would have loved to roll around in when he was younger. The pillowy emerald grass beckoned to him from down the steep hill.

Impulsively, Alistair stopped, crouching and laying himself down on the lip of the hill. He then shifted slightly, and momentum took over, sending him rolling. The world spun, and somewhere in the distance he heard Zevran laughing.

When he reached a plateau his body slowed and he found himself on his back. He sat up on his elbow to search for Zevran. His companion was nowhere to be found. Alistair scanned the top of the hill, only able to see grass and sky. Maybe his companion had left him. Then,

_Crash!_

Zevran somehow managed to roll perfectly in line with Alistair, and was now on top of him, brows arched mischievously.

"You claim to fear death, Warden. And yet..."

Zevran's lips hovered, just barely touching Alistair's.

"That was quite a perilous journey."

Zevran kissed Alistair's jaw. Alistair inhaled sharply, his adrenaline already pumping from the impulsive trip down the hill.

"Can I get a moment to... ah!"

Zevran had bitten down lightly on his earlobe. Alistair's neck tingled in anticipation of his next move, but Zevran just hovered for a moment, moving so they could look at each other.

"A moment to..." Zevran prompted him.

Alistair's mind flickered back to his days in the chantry, all those years of repression. Here was somebody who was the exact opposite of him in all respects. Somebody entirely nonjudgmental. Maybe, Alistair thought, he needed to let loose a bit. At least, that was what his intimate areas were telling him.

"Oh, just to do this."

Alistair's hand slid up Zevran's arm, taking hold of those perfect muscles which he had admired for so long from the back of the Wardens' procession. He was afraid he would have trouble gaining the upper hand, but he found his companion pliable in his shock, and Alistair was able to roll on top. Zevran raised his eyebrows, and Alistair thought to himself what nice eyebrows they really were. He leaned down and kissed them softly, one by one. Zevran's forest-hazel eyes fluttered closed in such a pretty way that Alistair decided to kiss them too, gently, once on each eyelid.

"Alistair..."

"Hold still."

Alistair kissed Zevran's perfect nose. His tattoos, one on each cheek. Alistair internally thanked the tattoos for bringing them together.

He touched Zevran's chest, which he could feel was solid and muscular even when covered with his shirt.

Still, it was worth a look. Alistair lifted up the shirt, head lowering to kiss his stomach. He heard Zevran sigh, and his stomach rose lightly, supple skin looking even smoother in the sun.

"Is this some sort of Ferelden mating ritual?" Zevran laughed, though Alistair knew him well enough to notice he was a bit out of breath.

"Would you rather we skipped right to the mating?" said Alistair, hesitantly pulling on his companion's shirt. Zevran helped him, sitting up and pulling it the rest of the way over his head.

"Maker, yes."

Alistair sat up, watching Zevran lying in the grass. His dark golden hair looked practically luminescent against the emerald grass. He looked helpless, exposed. That was new. Alistair kissed him once, lightly.

"Too bad."

Zevran's usual smirk had an air of desperation.

"Stop teasing, Warden," he said.

"Speak for yourself, Zev."

"I am."

Zevran's hand took hold of Alistair's, sliding it down his body tantalizingly, guiding it lower and lower…

"Alright, everybody! Up and out!"

Alistair inhaled sharply, realizing he had been holding his breath. If it was time to go, they had been away for almost an hour probably. It had passed in a second. Zevran muttered some sort of Antivan curse which went straight to Alistair's crotch.

_Think of darkspawn corpses, Theirin._

"Um, we should uh… Go. Right?"

Zevran was unusually silent, staring into the air around them.

They stood up, taking one last appreciative glance at the field, which Alistair noticed was dotted with richly pigmented flowers. He picked up his deathroot bouquet and they began to walk back to camp.

"Hey," Alistair held the flowers up, offering them to his companion.

Zevran glanced at them suspiciously. He did not speak. Alistair spoke instead.

"Look, this was... Nice. Whatever we're doing. I like it. We don't need to... You know."

"I don't, Warden. Please enlighten me as to what we need not do?"

Alistair made a vague gesture, slowing purposefully as they approached the camp. They could now see Lady Cousland choosing her companions. She seemed relatively uninterested in the pair, and a little too interested in Leliana, who was standing close to her and laughing. Maybe Alistair and Zevran weren't the only ones engaged in a... less than businesslike relationship.

"I just mean..." Alistair lowered his voice, "Maybe sex just isn't my thing."

Zevran touched his hand lightly.

"Warden, I can assure you. Sex is everyone's, how did you say... thing."

Before Alistair could respond, Cousland was striding over and tugging lightly on his arm.

"Warrior. Needed. Here. Thanks."

Alistair looked over his shoulder. He watched Zevran. Half of his face was shrouded in the shadow of the leaves hanging above him. Alistair remembered what it was like to kiss those perfect cheeks, to feel perfect muscles under perfect skin. He thought of that flaxen hair hanging curtain-like over half his face, unbelievably soft, incredibly touchable. It was what came after this above-the-belt touching that made his chest tight. Was it so wrong to just want to kiss forever and ever? And then was it wrong to just watch forever and never touch?

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Lady Cousland bounced over to Alistair, sword still dripping in murky blood from yesterday's last fight.

"Um, sure! That's why I have a mouth, right? To um... answer. Questions."

Cousland laughed knowingly. Of course she knew. They all knew. How obvious was it? The stars that filled his gaze at the thought of Zevran burned away in expectation of the mocking that would commence shortly. Cousland leaned in conspiratorially.

"What even are darkspawn? Like, zombies? I was always too embarrassed to ask."

Alistair breathed a sigh of relief. Finally something he knew about.

"Well, according to the Chant of Light..."


End file.
